


Some secrets are better left untold

by Lil_Sparrow



Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Bad Puns, Dark Comedy, How Do I Tag, Other, Why Did I Write This?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-22
Updated: 2021-02-22
Packaged: 2021-03-12 19:15:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29639367
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lil_Sparrow/pseuds/Lil_Sparrow
Summary: Two curious clowns stumble upon a part of Dr Crane's dark past in fashion industry
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel
Kudos: 3





	Some secrets are better left untold

The sun was slowly begging to set, colouring the bay and usually grey containers with tangerine and golden shades; the denim water like an always changing landscape brought it's waves, smashing the coast in a constant unending rhythm. Two figures were sitting inside one of the abandoned warehouses _~~(God, Gotham had a lot of those)~~_ , one of them running around the place, trying to find something for dinner in many half rotten boxes surrounding them like a fort. It wasn't a very successful day for him, not at all. Damn Batsy, why the fuck you are showing up in the middle of the day?! He wasn't planning on meeting him. Grumbling something, he moved a few sticks inside their little 'campfire' with a knife, but they clearly weren't in the mood for igniting themselves, just like most people. Sighing, Joker threw in another sheet of paper into flames, watching as it started cackling at him, turning into dried burning prune of papier-mâché. Clicking his tongue, he searched for another magazine to kill in a carton, picking one up, quickly looking it over. Maybe he needs to dose off a bit. Reading wasn't a thing he did often but why the fuck not? ' **Uni boys** ' the cover screamed at him with big red letters, trying it's best to grab the clowns easy to escape attention. Sure, fine. Placing it on his knees, he licked the tip of his finger, opening the thing up. **_'Gotham newspaper community'_**. Oh God, could they find a more creative name? He rolled his eyes, already bored after starting reading a recipe for a face cream, preferring to look at the pictures. Yup, and here go the models. Pretty face, pretty face, dumb article about how to talk to guys, another pretty face, and than mens fashion. Why did girls in 90s need to see men's clothing he didn't know. And it would be a waste of time for him too, only if he didn't notice something bizarre. First of all, for once, a model _didn't_ look like he was about to get a sugar overdose from his own sweet face. Second, he appeared familiar. Humming, he scanned the page once more. He definitely new that guy! But from where? Model stared back at him mockingly, standing, leaning in the chair next to him, showing off a 'casual office suit', almost begging him for a punch.   
"Harleeey!"  
"What?!"  
"Get your ass over here and tell me from where do I know this guy!"  
She ran to him, holding a can of tomato soup in one hand, and a flashlight in the other. Ewey, tomato soup. He couldn't force it down his throat even when it was warm.   
"What guy?"  
"This guy."  
He threw the magazine in her face, hitting it perfectly. The blond cursed, about to rip the paper blocking her view, but stopped, analyzing what was in front of her like he did a moment ago, fade of recognition in her eyes. He was about to 'politely' ask her if she had any ideas, when her sudden scream hit his ears like a hammer. How many times did he need to tell her not to do this?  
"I can't believe it! It's him!"  
"Who is responsible for giving me a headache?"  
"It's proffesah!"  
The Prince of crime felt his brows began to crawl up, trying to reach the hairline. He knew who that nickname belonged to pretty well.   
"The _boogy man?!_ Really?" He grabbed the piece out of her hands to take another look, trying to find the similarities. Young Master of Fear was slightly smiling at him, teal irises having the same kind of cold 'I'll strangle the world' expression. It was definitely him, just make him wear a wig and erase all the wrinkles – boom, we have this picture!  
"Well, well, well, Mr. Scary, what do we have here?" His smile grew in a devilish grin, oh, any kid would shit his pants if they saw that. "Pumpkin, do you have the good doctors number?"  
"Uh, yeah." She pulled her own gadget out, searching for 'Professor' on it. "Should I-"  
"No, I'll talk to him. Hand it over."

Crane has been having a relatively nice evening, finishing his notes on a new toxin and excited to experiment with it on the following week. He was half asleep on his table when his phone rang, a name of a certain a harlequin lighting up on the screen.   
"Yes, this is Dr. Jonathan Crane, how may I help you?" It was his usual greeting, nothing more, nothing less, she wasn't getting a special treatment. This girl was lucky he picked up anyway, being in a nice mood.  
"C'mon, Johnny, don't be so modest!"  
Oh Lord. He almost took a deep breath, preparing for his poor tired brain to be violated.   
"Evening, Joker."  
"That's more like it! I was about to think you forgot me!"  
"I would very much like that, but most people aren't that lucky." That husky voice was as unforgettable as any sound can be, like when you hear a bone crashing for the first time. "What can I do for you?"  
"So glad you asked! You see, we were thinking about crashing your place to ask a very important question."  
He sighed audibly now.   
"Can't you ask me on the phone?"  
"No way."  
Another sigh. There was still a chance to throw this phone out of the window and he'll buy a new one.   
"We'll be at your layer in thirty minutes!"  
World hated him back as much as he did it, truly. 

After one murdered taxi driver, both clowns proudly walked through small streets of Chinatown that were designed more like a set of tunnels for rats, every corner being a turn for another street or a dead end. Gotham really loved trying to capture its residents inside of it, and, to be honest, it was surprisingly working well for a town full of dressed up lunatics with one off them trying to catch all the others.   
"Why does he live here instead of Narrows like any normal villain?" The potentially beautiful sunset was blocked by heavy ash like clouds, a wall between the city and the sky. Rain was about to start and air smelled like upcoming storm.   
"Well, it's proffesah, he always had weird tastes." Quinn was as jumpy as ever, pressing against her chest a few other magazines with a nightmarish stick man. "We're here!"   
Her tone was a bit too cheerful, a two storey building was as crappy as can be, windows on both floors shut tight with black curtains so no light, even nonexistent one, could make it inside. She knocked a few times, ~~_clearly forgetting who the real leader here was_~~ , but he didn't have time to object as the door swang open, revealing a quietly pissed off ex-psychiatrist, glaring at them coldly.   
"And here's our star! I came for an autograph!" He snapped his fingers and his hyperactive companion happily offered one of the magazine's, opened just on the right page. In a second, the entrance was about to be shut down if only there wasn't a shiny black shoe, halfway in, marking his territory with mud from the street and maybe, just maybe, with a pinch of blood. After some fighting for the icy metallic handle, the owner of this house decided his lock has had enough and, probably, will break if they keep that up.   
"There's a carpet, don't stain it." Crane's voice was low, as a growl of a carnivore who has given up hope to have an easy win with another murderous beast entering his territory. If there was a human near, practicing occultism on daily basis, they would feel a flash of two radiating auras colliding against each other (on the condition they existed). But even without colourful orbs around their bodies, it was hard to look at two most wanted criminal masterminds without trembling.   
"Hello Professa!"  
Both men, clearly busy finding each others 'soft spots' to bite into, turned to face a smiling bubbly being that, as a professional killer, went for the throat of it's victim, with the best intention of strangling it in a powerful hug. Scarecrow jumped out of the way, watching as it fell into an empty place where he was standing a moment ago. Sharing knowing glances, the two made a silent handshake of peace, and after a banter where The Master of Fear was insisting on The Prince of Crime to get his footwear off, the first one walked them to a living room. One flopped on the couch, a toothy rotten smile on a pale face, as he went through another "work" of a colleague of his.  
"Never thought you had it in ya, Baggy, surprise, _surprise_." Last two words had the consistency of molasses with a taste of tar.  
"What do you want?"  
"Oh, so boring! C'mon, you can do better than that." There was a spark as a tip of long thin cigarette lit up, making deep shadows appear on the man's forehead, under cheekbones and eyes. Two small pupils appeared almost impossible, a couple of black holes, hungry for more, were met with identically miniature, but dead in there nature, dots, burning chill inside them. Atmosphere in here was so thick you can cut it with a knife. "You see, I had an unplanned rendezvous with Batsy today, me and pumpkin need to lay low for some time. But my boys are out of town and we can't get to any of our hideouts now, when it's almost night."  
There was a pause as a man in front of him gave a nod, careful and brief, getting on his train of thought.   
"I'll arrange that. Leave the journals here, all of them, and we won't ever talk of this again." He moved to the side, like a slithering snake, tilting his head slightly, waiting for an answer.  
"Deal!" Their palms almost made it all the way until there was a squick, like someone decided to squeeze a frog or one of those resin toys for dogs. A pair of heads shifted in that direction, as a blond ex-psychiatrist number two smiled sheepishly, pressing her smartphone against her chest in away a child hides a broken vase behind their legs, when their parents come in. Five papers layed on her laps and around her in a small half circle.   
"What did you do?" A small growl escaped red lips, as Joker straightened, squinting at his "assistant" as she winced in response.   
"Uh…"  
Ringing stopped her from answering, now three people freezing, like there were guns pressed to their backs.   
"Pardon me."   
Doctor pressed on a green symbol, picking up the device just when the clown wanted to ask who in the world still says: 'Pardon'.  
"This is Dr. Jonathan Crane, how may I help you?"  
"Quit it, Crane. I can't take you seriously after these photos." A familiar voice was on the other line, tender but strong, silky but dangerous.   
"Dr. Isley, wait a second, will you? I have a clown to murder."   
"Sexy."  
If Kafka thought that a metamorphosis of man turning into a giant bug was a surrealistic but terrifyingly fascinating sight to imagine, he never saw a Master of Fear almost tripping over from one single word.   
"… What?"  
"Well, she isn't incorrect."   
Crane was sure he lost his mind. He almost felt it break, piece by piece shattering and falling, turning into even more pieces.  
"Not you too?"  
The Prince of Crime shrugged at that, waving his wrist in uncertainty, like he wasn't sure what to say next, his eyes wandering in other direction.  
"Plus, minus, I'd give you a six point three out of ten."  
"That's hursh." Pamela, on the other end, opened her conversation with Harley, looking over pictures once again, just to be sure. "I'd give it at least a seven, just for the pose. You can add a point for irises too."  
Scarecrow quietly sat down on his chair, staring into emptiness.   
"And the hair! His hair is cute!" Harley quickly joined their discussion, walking over with one of her «favourites» in her hands, as she showed it to her partner. "C'mon, puddin! I'd give it an eight!"  
"Sure, sure, but that one where he's with shirtsleeves is _meh_. Ruined the whole résumé."   
"Which one again?" Asked a phone, now left lonely and untouched on the table, while his owner was somewhere far away.  
"Where he's in that cucumber coloured shirt." Joker scoffed, now going through a pile. "You have like very furry hands, John, just saying. For a guy of your posture one would think your skin is like dolphins."  
"Oh, yes, he does." Redhead hummed. "Hot nonetheless, I've seen much worse."  
"Agreed! Not every model has to be hairless, Mistah J!" She said in a scolding tone. "There has to be **_variety_**!"  
"Ladies, I'm not saying that there shouldn't be." He raised his hands, puffing out a cloud of smoke. "Crane, did I say anything like that? Crane?"  
There was silence. Both clowns shared a conflicted look, before Joker carefully touched a figure which has been fixed in place for the last five minutes, possibly, not even blinking. There wasn't any reaction.   
"Is he dead or something?" Came Ivy's voice.  
"We aren't sure." Harley watched as her boyfriend pulled out a knife, tapping with it a sack of meat that was once, to be accurate, until six and a half minutes ago, the most feared villain of a megacity called Gotham. Well, maybe not the most feared, but the skinniest, the tallest and, in his mind, the scariest.   
"Boogie man? Yoo-hoo?" A sharp tip poked, slicing through the olive green fabric and skin under it. " ** _AH_** -hey!" 

***  
**Red**. Red flames ignited the sky as papers and bricks and, if he a good job, people, burned in a building called the most trivial name one company could.   
"Stop in name of the-", one of the officers began as if it would have any affect, before a knowing wrinkled hand smacked smacked the mans shoulder.  
"Shut it, don't let the air out, son."   
Gordon, like any old, tired of his work, life and world in general, couldn't care less about why the infamous Boogie the Strawman was standing in front of a slowly turning to ashes "Gotham newspaper community". The fire did most of the damage and the guys in red either didn't care even more about their job, or they decided that burlap combusts great on it's own. No tact in people these days.   
"Crane, how about-"  
"Yes, yes, let's go." He let out a sigh, getting the mask off, as well the hat. "Rest in Hell."   
"What? Who?" Bushy eyebrows of a commissioner, imitating a seagulls raised wings, flew up, expecting an answer, that he wasn't supposed to receive.

Two black skeletons were found buried under, presumably, a stack of nineties magazines.  
Joker's head was never found.  
**The end**. 

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't finish this thing for the longest time! But I did. And I'm proud. I don't care for reasons, I just thought it sounded ridiculous in my head  
> Thanks hereforthesmut for their help and inspiration x)


End file.
